


Blood Rush

by Brosedshield



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Blood Drinking, Episode Tag, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:51:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brosedshield/pseuds/Brosedshield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Throats aren't hoses, and you can't always be neat. While Sam reaches for the first gallon, the first drink, the first hit, he tries very hard to think of nothing at all. ("Swan Song", S5.22)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Rush

Sam stares down at the four, dirty gallon milk jugs lined up in the trunk. It looks like dark red paint, siphoned messily from a hardware store. It's drying already, especially around the top where Bobby's hasty swipe before putting the cap on hadn't quite wiped away the overflow. Throats aren't hoses, and you can't always be neat.  
  
He needed Dean to go away, because he doesn't trust himself, and if Dean doesn't trust him now, at least a little, he'll never be able to stand up against Lucifer. And if Dean could see into his head right now, God, he shouldn't trust him at all.  
  
His throat's been aching ever since Crowley cut the first demon's throat and the blood started to pour out while the hellbastard tried to scream and gurgled around the gag. He doesn't think that he can feel the blood, or anything like that, any more than the alcoholic has an extrasensory perception for alcohol, or the crackhead can sense the fix.  
  
But seeing it there makes him thirsty, reminds him of all the good and bad times when family wasn't an issue staring him in the face. Reminds him of Ruby's wrists, and his throat isn't the only thing that aches.  
  
While he reaches for the first gallon, reaches for the first drink, the first shot, the first hit, Sam tries very hard to think of nothing at all. He can't tell himself he's doing this for Dean, to save the world, to stop the Apocalypse, because then he's never going to be able to force that damned stuff down his throat. Not after last time.  
  
It's not about the flavor. No one ever claimed it was, but he thinks that Bobby and Dean think on some level that he enjoys the taste, like he's going to order a demon blood margarita—virgin— at the Apocalypse after-party.  
  
The first swallow is always the worst. It's fresh, but cooling and clumping already ( _He fastens his mouth on her sliced vein, the poison rushing out, into him, sweet and hot, and he's far gone_ ), but he knocks it back and tries to drink as much as possible with that first swallow. It tastes like cold, thick copper, with a base of beef bullion and a hint of rotten eggs. His stomach twists, his lungs spasm, and he thinks for one hopeful, twisted moment that maybe he can't do it, maybe his body will reject the damn stuff and they'll have to go home and he, Bobby and Dean can cook popcorn and watch the Apocalypse from a bar somewhere and get wasted before the angels, demons, or whatever come to roast their asses.  
  
Then, like he knew it would ( _Still a monster, Sam_ ) the rush hits.  
  
The first draft was always the best, a heady blast of power and freedom. Everything after that was just keeping air under his wings, keeping withdrawal away. This used to be the only time he completely forgot what he was doing. Now, this is the moment that almost makes him panic, makes him almost spill, for the same reason.  
  
The sulpher, copper, meaty slush slides down his throat and the gag reflex kicks in half-heartedly, but it can't compete with the power that rushes up from his core, somewhere that isn't heart, lungs, liver or guts. That power doesn't come from demon blood, couldn't possibly come from little bits of hellbastard floating around with hemoglobin, it's Sam, all Sam, but damn doesn't that old red shit grease the wheels, breaking all the barriers that keep him from who he's supposed to be, who he has the _right_ to be.  
  
And then Sam is holding very hard onto the edge of the Impala's trunk, the half-empty gallon hanging off a few fingers. He's shaking, shaking so hard he has to carefully place the jug of blood back with its brothers in the shadowy trunk so that he won't drop it and waste the precious ( _curseddamnfuckinghorrible ohGodnotagainthatfeltsogood_ ) stuff doing whatever he's going to do, whether that be vomit out everything, stand here shaking, or something worse, much worse with all this power burning behind his hands.  
  
Because he's not just shaking because this terrifies him, terrifies him a hell of a lot more than facing Satan and saying "Sure, come on, share my head, bastard"—which he's never done before. He's done _this_ before and it caught him, caught him so tight that he has nightmares about detox and nightmares about never coming down off the high, and some nights they switch off, and he can't escape until Dean shakes him awake. No, Sam's shaking now, too, because that feels so fucking sweet, good and hot; burning his veins raw, and sensitive, and alive.  
  
He can feel the demons now, faintly, and the greater burn of Lucifer, and that's just from one drink.  
  
He feels just a little bit invincible, and it's not cockiness. With demon blood he always felt that gloss of immunity, a little polish on the nerves, eyes, ears and mental muscles that he would never be able to explain. It was the understanding that nothing could stand in his way, nothing could get between him ( _and Dean_ ) and his goals if he just had enough of this foul stuff in his veins to call the power where he could hold it in his hand. But one drink wasn't enough. Wasn't nearly enough for what he had to do.  
  
He has to save Dean. He ( _has to stop Lilith_ ) has to stop Lucifer, stop the Apocalypse, and save the world. And he can, with just another swallow, just a little more access to that power he always has. One more drink and he'll be strong enough to make up to his big brother all times he's ( _let Dean go to Hell for him_ ) let Dean down. To say, and mean, that Dean doesn't have to worry about him. He's not a monster. He fixes his mistakes.  
  
Sam grabs the half empty gallon and downs it in another long swallow. Reaches for another, the copper burning the back of his throat.  
  
By the time his fingers find the cap on the third jug, he's not really tasting it any more. The wheels of power are moving. The gasoline's been lit. He can't stop it now, and wouldn't want to, but not because it feels good, thought it does, feels like sex and morphine and control-over-his-own-life rolled into one happy magic mushroom. Sam won't stop because this is the plan, this is what they all agreed to do, maybe to save their asses, maybe just to say they tried.  
  
Sam couldn't stop now ( _and wouldn't want to_ ) but there is really only one reason that he could force himself take that first step. Yes, some days he craves this stuff like a bitch when the black eyes flash up in some hellbastard, but he remembers hurting Dean, he remembers what it felt like the second _after_ Lilith fell bleeding over Lucifer's cage, he remembers detox. Damn, he wants this, but the only reason he actually let himself _take_ it is that he's going to be in Hell for detox. Not here. Not with family. Not watching the wounds his mistakes caused scab over and never heal. Hell, with an angry Lucifer eating up his brain, seems preferable to Bobby's safe room, where the past comes back and never kills him, and when he's sane he can hear Dean drinking, waiting to see if what walks out will ever be his brother.   
  
Sam throws the last empty in the trunk, takes a moment to wipe his mouth thoroughly with the wet rag Bobby left him, and rebalances, figuring out where he stands while the blood rush beats against his brain. He could kill anything near him, sure, but it's hard to see—through the sudden brightness of the alley, the push of the demonic and angelic minds in the tenement, his own giddy heartbeat—whether or not _Sam Winchester_ still has control.  
  
After a moment, swaying on his feet from the undiluted power ( _he wants to use it, burn it all, and drink it down again_ ), he knows that beneath the confidence and violence he's still _himself_ enough to fight off Lucifer. He can do that. He will, for his brother if no one else. But, feeling the demonic rush like an old friend ( _hitting his veins where it doesn't belong and yet does so sweetly_ ), Sam knows there is only one reason he let himself drink this shit again, and it's not to save the world, and it's not to prove to himself that he can control it, and it's not even to keep Dean alive. It's because Dean trusts him, at least at little, trusts him to hold back, trusts him to stay Sam ( _this time_ ) no matter how many bloody cocktails he drinks, and trusts him to fight a damn fallen angel out of his head to save the world.  
  
And because Dean believes it, Sam believes it too.

**Author's Note:**

> Even though it was the first fic I ever wrote, I'm still really happy with it. Also available [on LJ](http://brosedshield.livejournal.com/2282.html)


End file.
